Without You, There is No Me

Talking to Vic is nice. He listens to you and waits for you to finish. He still smiles and chuckles, but just listens. He’ll reply with a short sentence and then lets you continue. I usually don’t talk this much, but I hated sitting in silence.

He picked at some fries and drank from his coke occasionally, but he really just listened to me. I explained the cancer thing and how I was good now.

I told him about the time my parents separated and I took it really hard. I told him why I tried to kill myself.

“Things are better though right?” he asks. I shrug. “I mean your parents are back together right?”

“Yeah, but just because one problem is taken care of doesn’t mean that the entire situation is resolved.”

“This is true.” He agrees.

“Can we stop talking about me? I don’t like talking. I want to listen about you.”

“What about me?”

“Well everything, I guess.” I say.

He starts with his full name and then talks about his younger brother. He talks about his love for music and how it’s helped him.

Then he gets into the scary stuff. He was caught trying to over dose on prescription sleeping pills. His parents found his razor. His brother found out he planned on killing himself and told his mom and dad.

The worst part comes soon after he describes the horror he went through. He lifts up his flannel sleeve and there are scars, none of which look new, that go up above his elbow.

He lifts up the other sleeve and there is an exact replica of the other arm.

“I’d show you the rest, but you can’t pull down your pants in public these days.” He smirks.

“But why?” I whisper.

“Why not,” he shrugs “we all die at one point in our life and I know too much about the real world to ever be optimistic.”

“What about you?” he asks after a moment of silence. “Why is it any different if I do this? Is it socially acceptable for you to hurt yourself and not me?”

“Well no, not at all I was really trying to understand what happened to make you want to hurt yourself.” He just looks at the window. “Let’s talk about a lighter subject. When’s your birthday?”

~

We talk for the remaining of the hour and walk back to the building where the group therapy is held. I wait for my mom and he stands by me and tells me more about him.

Then he tells me to text him and I reply telling him I can’t due to the fact that I don’t have your number.

He pulls out a sharpie out of nowhere and writes it on my palm and smiles at me. Then he leaves.

~
I think about him the entire car ride home. I remembered all the bands he liked and swore to him that I’d listen to every single one when I got home.

I liked him. I liked how he always played with his unusually long, curly hair. I liked his smile and that crooked tooth he had.

I didn’t like the scars. I didn’t like how hurt he was. I didn’t like hearing about his pain.

Maybe it was the same for him. Maybe he didn’t like hearing me upset. I was optimistic that he felt that same way.

I started thinking that maybe we were brought together for a reason.

That maybe we were supposed to help each other.